Christ consciousness

We are made cellular,

Christ consciousness,

Apoptosis; where each is

Created to sacrifice,

Give its life, for the

Good of the whole;

Where each individual

Cell, is programmed

When healthy, to die

For the sake of the

Rest; to choose

Extinction, in order

That others may live,

On, just as Christ

Is said to have done;

Each cell a saviour

And a redeemer in

The story, the glory

The crucifixion of life,

From which comes,

Resurrection. Only

When a cell forgets

The truth of what it

Is, and why it was

Made, does it seek

To be eternal in the

Material and, in the

Doing, bring Death.

Dance of death

You were seventy,
you said, that day
at lunch, and you
would not grow old

and infirm, where
others had to care
for you, and where
you drained their

lives, and existed
in your own misery,
and so, you gave
yourself ten years,

and then, you said,
you would go to
Europe for a holiday,
somewhere lovely

like Lake Como, on
your way to someone
with a needle, who
could, in an instant,

bring it all to an end,
so no-one had to
suffer in that lingering
of life - but would you?

It is easy to talk of
what we might do in
ten, long years, as
opposed, to ten, short

minutes left of life,
and where in that
plan is trust, for the
process of this journey

we take as mortal
beings; gratitude for
the horrors and joys
of living in this

material world? But,
of course, your path
is not mine, and it
may have its own

ending, long before
you set out for Lake
Como, and the need-
ling end of existence.

The Ocean Spoke

The ocean spoke in waves of song,
turning in upon itself, caressing
all it touched, as if it sang itself
to sleep; in lullabies of semen surf,

requiring nothing of the sands which
soared and drifted in its wake, settling
into place, renewed, removed, as
something new, beyond the pure

beginnings of creation where all was
possibility; revealed now as womb
and source of all becoming, roiling
in a brew of life unknown and barely

recognised, from which would come
the bones of ancient arks of being,
and where the scud of foaming crust
would settle and lay quiet, allowing

in the silence, through aeons of
darkness and of light, the creep of
creatures, steadying salt-crusted
lips, waiting to breathe the air.

It was dark

It was dark when
I thought of you
and tried to call,
but there was no

answer, and then
it seemed even
darker than it had
been, darker than

the night could
muster, blacker
than midnight;
bereft of shades

of dawn, lost in
wondering and
fears which lurk
in the belly of

night, groaning
in the acid of
dissolution; that
refusal to digest.

That bridge

That bridge you built
with sweating hands,
across my heart’s divide,
while secretly I tunnelled,
has brought us side to
side, and in the stretch
of moment, connected
as we were, both mind
and soul directed, that
we remain entwined.

Token of self

Edges chipped and worn,
serrated by the soul,
the boundary of self
where time chews slow,

forlorn, and in the simple
doing, and being of us
all, we are remade, re-
formed, reborn, as who

we're meant to be, while
even in those moments,
we have no knowledge
sure, no sense of what's

intended, just knowing
there is more; beyond
the mere token that we
see of our material self.